I think this is a problem everyone has: explaining exactly what love is. No-one know what it is, yet some claim they are in it. I ponder whether it exists at all. If no-one can explain it to me in a satisfactory way, how can I accept it exists?
People say it will come to me when I least expect it. I never expect it. I suspect I left it behind somewhere a long time ago. That may be why neither I found it nor it caught up with me. I don’t miss it particularly. Love is like a screaming child. You have a certain affinity for it - you don’t really know why. Sometimes you wish it went away, but once it does there is an emptiness.
You learn to fill that emptiness over time with other things - perhaps something that isn’t such a pest. It’s not the same but it’s either that or living an empty life. I don’t consider my life empty at the moment. I feel quite fulfilled, and I could fulfill it yet more if I really wanted without looking for love. The big question is, however, if love knocked on my door, would I turn it away?
I suppose I won’t know until it happens. Until then, I can entertain you with my musings I suppose. Ha! Muses. Bane of my life. The trouble is, as I keep saying, my brain is unrelenting in its quest to burn itself out eventually ticking over every memory I have. Recently I started thinking about my childhood long ago, when my sister and I used to go to Dad’s, and with Karen, Aaron and Chris we’d go to Perry Wood, climb trees and burn energy. I distinctly remember once I ripped my Spiderman t-shirt on a felled fir tree, which annoyed Mum immensely. Terrific details I recall, which - although there were not any muses here - is indication of how deep my memories run. Returning to muses briefly, the attention to detail of experiences and the equivalent recollections play on my mind over and over again.
What do I do about that?